Wing Wing

It takes all week to live a week
there aren't any shortcuts in today's economy
we're all poor and vaguely autistic
and Xanax just makes you feel zonked
like grape soda poured over the whites
in a washing machine: it stains.
I am despised but that hasn't stopped me
from writing this to you.
Show me a poet that's lived a perfect life
and I'll never speak to her again.
A gang of punks walk in and the phone
has wings, it's the alarm going off,
you really need to wake up, pay the bills
and buy some milk and tissues. Your feet
are blue and the wind seems to
be physically beating the shit
out of the people walking to their jobs
each day of the week is a reason
to stomp out of the house onto
the yawning esplanade of your
no-name neighborhood clutching
a cigar box stuffed with dead orchids.
Your life is a movie playing to an empty
theater flickering on empty seats. Fuck it,
I'm your friend, that's why I'm writing
this to you from a gazebo in deep winter
dead leaves skitter like brown spiders
under my lawn chair across the yard
and down the street home to you
and they can't take that away from me.